Lokidottir
by 898700
Summary: She doesn't exactly remembers not existing, but there's an instant right before she came to be, an eternal second where she was both part soul, part dying star, that defines her being but is swiftly gone like a spark of a newly created universe collapsing into itself at the same moment of its conception (from a Mjolnir prompt @ the norsekink community at LJ).


From a prompt from the norsekink community at LJ.

Here's the thing: while Mjlonir is Thor's ultimate war hammer, she happens to adore the hell out of Loki. Thor hates that Loki has such a hold over Mjolnir (in some ways stronger than his own) while Loki is touched his little sentient hammer friend still adores him.

* * *

She doesn't exactly remembers not existing, but there's an instant right before she came to be, an eternal second where she was both part soul, part dying star, that defines her being but is swiftly gone like a spark of a newly created universe collapsing into itself at the same moment of its conception.

It is not that she forgets, because how can she recall what happened before she was? There is nowhere to store a recollection, no point of comparison since the place she still doesn't occupy was empty just a flicker before. She knows not of limits, of outlines, of her own identity, and thus lets go of this memory she never really had. And it slips through her but it affects her not. She still doesn't know how to mourn.

And then she _is_. Mjölnir, they call her, but she doesn't need names to describe her sense of self. She is, and she exists, and everything is new and overpowering and she doesn't notice.

And she doesn't know she doesn't notice.

But then he touches her. He isn't the first, not that there have been many before, but there's something in him that calls her, something that thrums through them both when they are in contact, and she _realizes_. There's emptiness in her that she didn't know existed but now can't ignore. It makes her itch and reach for him, and then he touches again and yes, she's _whole_.

She gives herself completely, because how else could it be? This is what she was born for.

But there's a prickle of something that never leaves, and in fact gets suddenly worst when she's least expecting it before diminishing, even if it is never gone. She engages in battle with her owner, shares his bloodlust and channels the thunder. It never fails to make her tingle, leave her sated, content.

It never lasts.

And one day _he_ comes to her. She's never paid attention to any command that comes not from her owner, but there's something in _him_ that makes her rise. Her physical uru body moves not but she's reaching, stretching, trying to touch touch touch and this lack of contact _hurts_.

And he reaches too, and for a long short moment, before he touches her his magic does, and _oh_.

Oh, how mistaken she was.

There's no emptiness in her, no hole to be filled. Instead she's what left the hole, she is part of a soul, a part that was not taken but freely given, and sorely missed even if she was meant as a gift.

And then they touch, their physical bodies do, and she

she loses herself

she drowns in despair and loneliness and jealousy

she rages and doubts and screams herself raw in everlasting silence

she _loves_

And this love is what anchors her while trends of painfully familiar magic pull her back, try to protect her, to shield. And it is this, this care and regret and careful handling that makes her pull her sense back.

She is a weapon, Mjölnir the Crusher. She is _Power_.

It doesn't stop her from enjoying the gentle warmth that roving fingers trail all over her faces, the whispered apologies, the closeness.

She doesn't want to be parted, but he shows her. He says _Thor_ and she feels. She's still cocooned, and yet she feels so much, too much, an overwhelming tide.

She understands.

She has a purpose, and now she knows it.

She allows the separation.

She never forgets.

* * *

_"Can't you control your weapon?"_ she hears one of her master's companions ask, but she dismisses them the same way she dismisses almost everything else. It's been too long, far too long, and she's been forced to fight _him_, and she wants to comply, but for once she can't. She _needs_, and as every time before, when she reaches he reaches back. Tender fingertips follow the cracks that no one else can see, and while they are tended and fixed and healed she can feel the echoing fractures in the rest of their soul.

"I have missed you," he says, and she hums back at him, the sound something like a purr that startles a laugh out of him. She is _so proud_ of herself. She might not be able to mend him, but no matter the cost she will make sure that he knows.

She will never forget.


End file.
